Execution Dock

by Anne Perry

  Around midafternoon of the next day, Monk faced the opulent receiver known as Pearly Boy. He had been known that way for so long nobody could remember what his original name had been, but it was only since the death of the Fat Man the previous winter that he had taken over a far larger slice of business along the river, and prospered to the degree of wealth that he now possessed.

  He was slender and soft-faced, and he wore his hair rather long. He always spoke quietly, with a very slight lisp, and no one had seen him, winter or summer, without his waistcoat, which was stitched with hundreds of pearl buttons that gleamed in the light. He was the last man one would expect to have a reputation for ruthlessness not only for a hard bargain, but if necessary, with a knife— pearl-handled, of course.

  They were sitting in the small room behind Pearly Boy's shop in Limehouse. The shop was ostensibly to sell ships’ instruments: compasses, sextants, quadrants, chronometers, barometers, astrolabes. Set out in order on a table was a variety of dividers and parallel rules. But Pearly's main business took place in the back room, largely concerning stolen jewelry, objets d'art, paintings, carvings, and jewel-encrusted ornaments. He had already taken over most of the Fat Man's territory.

  He looked at Monk blandly, but his eyes were as cold as a polar sea. “Always ‘appy to ‘elp the police,” he said. “What are you looking for, Mr. Monk? It is ‘Monk,’ isn't it? ‘Eard word, you know. Reputation.”

  Monk did not take the bait.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said with a nod. “Something we have in common.”

  Pearly Boy was startled. “What's that then?”

  “Reputation.” Monk was unsmiling. “I understand you're a hard man too.”

  Pearly Boy thought that was funny. He started to giggle, and it grew and swelled into rich chortling laughter. Finally he stopped abruptly, wiping his cheeks with a large handkerchief. “I'm going to like you,” he said, his face beaming, his eyes like wet stones.

  “I'm delighted,” Monk replied, sounding as though he had smelled spoiling milk. “We might be of use to each other.”

  That was language Pearly Boy definitely understood, even if he was dubious about believing it. “Oh, yeah, an’ how's that then?”

  “Friends and enemies in common,” Monk explained.

  Pearly Boy was interested. He tried to hide it, and failed. “Friends?” he said curiously. “‘Oo's friends o’ yours, then?”

  “Let's start with enemies,” Monk answered with a smile. “One of yours was the Fat Man.” He saw the flash of hatred and triumph in Pearly Boy's eyes. “One of mine too,” Monk added. “You have me to thank that he's dead.”

  Pearly Boy licked his lips. “I know that. I ‘eard. Drowned in the mud off Jacob's Island, they say.”

  “That's right. Nasty way to go.” Monk shook his head. “Would have fished the body up, but it was hardly worth it. Got the statue, which is what mattered. He'll keep down there nicely.”

  Pearly Boy shuddered. “You're a hard bastard, all right,” he agreed, and Monk was not sure whether he meant it as a compliment or not.

  “I am,” Monk conceded. “I'm after several people, and I don't forget either a good turn or a bad one. Who is Mary Webber?”

  “No idea. Never ‘eard of ‘er. Which means she's not in my business. She int a thief nor a receiver nor a customer,” Pearly Boy said flatly.

  Monk was not surprised; he had not expected her to be. “And I'm after a boy named Reilly, and even more than that, I'm after whoever was forced into looking after him, seeing to it that he didn't get hurt.”

  Pearly Boy opened his eyes wide. “Forced? Ow could anyone be forced? ‘Oo would do that, an’ why, Mr. Monk?”

  “Mr. Durban would have done it,” Monk replied steadily. “Because he didn't like having boys murdered.”

  “Well, I never.” Pearly Boy affected amazement, but his curiosity overcame his judgment, as Monk had hoped it would. Pearly Boy dealt not only in stolen goods but in rare or precious information as well— that too at times stolen. “‘Oo could stop that ‘appening, then?”

  “Someone with power.” Monk said it as though he were thinking out loud. “And yet someone who had a lot to lose as well, a lot in danger, if you understand me?”

  Pearly Boy was still two steps behind. “‘Oo'd be killin’ boys, then?”

  “Jericho Phillips, if they get out of line, rebel against …” He stopped, seeing Pearly Boy's face go suddenly pallid and his body in its decorated waistcoat stiffen until his arms were rigid. Suddenly Monk was as certain Pearly Boy was one of Durban's informants against Phillips as if he had written it in his notes. He smiled and saw in Pearly Boy's eyes that he had read the understanding, and it knotted his stomach with terror.

  “One of Phillips's clients,” Monk went on, his voice quite casual now. He leaned elegantly against the mantel, watching Pearly Boy's discomfort. “I can imagine it happening, can't you? Durban would have followed the man until he could confront him, maybe somewhere near Phillips's boat. Perhaps it would be just after this man, whoever he is, had left a night's entertainment, and the excitement and guilt were still hot inside him.”

  Pearly Boy was motionless, eyes on Monk's face.

  “No lie would come to him easily then,” Monk continued. “No matter how often he had prepared for such a moment. Durban would have chosen a place where there was enough light to be sure the man recognized his marks of office, his uniform, his cudgel. Yes, he'd definitely take a cudgel, just in case the man was desperate enough to fight. After all, he would have a lot to lose—public disgust, ridicule, loss of position, friends, money, power, perhaps even his family.”

  Pearly Boy licked his lips nervously.

  “Then Durban would make the offer,” Monk said. “‘Use your power to protect Reilly, the boy most in danger because of his age and his courage, and I'll protect you. Let Reilly die, and I'll expose you to the whole of London.’”

  Pearly Boy licked his lips again. “So ‘oo was it then?”

  “That is what I want from you, Pearly Boy,” Monk answered.

  Pearly Boy cleared his throat. “An’ if I don't? It could ‘ave been lots o’ people. I dunno ‘oo's got that kind o’ weakness. It could be a revenue man, a magistrate, a rich merchant, an ‘arbormaster. They got all kinds o’ tastes. Or it could ‘ave been another policeman! Ever thought o’ that?”

  “Of course I have. Who could have protected Reilly? That's the key to it. Who had the power? Above all, who was important enough to Phillips that he would listen to him?”

  Understanding flashed in Pearly Boy's soft, clever face, and the excitement of knowledge. “You mean ‘oo's got an appetite ‘e can't control, an’ needs Phillips ter feed it, an’ yet ‘e's got some kind o’ power to ‘elp Phillips that's so good Phillips ‘as got to keep ‘im sweet too? That's a nice one, Mr. Monk, a very nice one indeed.”

  “Yes, it is. And I want a nice answer,” Monk agreed.

  Pearly Boy's eyebrows rose. “Or what?” He was shivering very slightly Monk could smell the sweat of fear in the closed air of the room. “What if I can't find out?” He tried a bit of bravado. “Or if I decide not to?”

  “I shall see that Phillips knows that you told Mr. Durban about this very interesting client, and are on the point of telling me, when we can agree on a price.”

  Pearly Boy was white, the sweat beading on his face. “And what price would that be?” he asked hoarsely.

  Monk smiled, showing his teeth. “Future silence, and a certain shortsightedness now and then, where the revenue men are concerned.”

  “Dead men are silent,” Pearly Boy said through thin lips.

  “Not those who can write, and leave clear instructions behind them. Mr. Durban might have been very nice to you. I won't be.”

  “I could ‘ave you killed. Dark night, narrow alley?”

  “The Fat Man's dead. I'm not,” Monk reminded him. “Take the easy way, Pearly Boy. You're a receiver, not a murderer. You kill a River Policeman, you'll b
e tracked down. Do you want to be buried feetfirst in the Thames mud, never come back up again?”

  Pearly Boy went even paler still. “You'll owe me!” he challenged, his eyes flickering a little.

  Monk smiled. “I told you, I'll forget about you … to a point. I'll put you last on my list to close down, rather than first.”

  Pearly Boy said something obscene under his breath.

  “I beg your pardon!” Monk snapped.

  “I'll find ‘im,” Pearly replied.

  Suddenly Monk was gracious. “Thank you. It will be to your advantage.”

  But as he left his emotions were tangled. He walked warily along the narrow street, keeping to the middle, away from the alley entrances and the sunken doorways.

  What was the difference between one blackmail and another? Was it of kind, or only of degree? Did the purpose justify it?

  He did not even have to think about that. If he could save any child from Phillips, he would, without a thought for the morality of his actions. But did that make him a good policeman or not? He felt uncomfortable, unhappy, uncertain in his judgment, and closer to Durban than ever before. But it was a closeness of emotion, rage and vulnerability.

  And of course when Durban had died at the turn of the year, the protection of Reilly had disappeared. He had been left naked to whatever Phillips had wanted to do. That thought made him feel sick, even as he came out of the alley into the wind and the sun of the open dock.

  EIGHT

  athbone sat at his own dinner table and felt curiously with-/out appetite. The room was beautiful, greatly improved from its original, rather sparse elegance, since Margaret's advent into the house. He was not quite sure what it was specifically that was changed, but it was somehow warmer than it had been before. The table had the same clean lines of Adam mahogany, the ceiling still had the heavy plaster borders of acanthus leaves. The blue-and-white curtains were different, far less heavy than before. There were touches of gold here and there, and a bowl of pink roses on the table. They gave both warmth and a sense of ease to the room, as if it were lived in.

  He drew in his breath to thank Margaret, because of course it was she who had caused the changes, then he let the moment slip, and ate some more fish instead. It would sound artificial, as if he were searching for something polite to say. They should be talking about real things, not trivia like the curtains and flowers.

  She was concentrating on her food, looking down at her plate. Should he compliment her on it? It was she who had engaged the cook. What was she thinking about, with that slight frown between her brows? Had she any idea what was turning over and over in his mind? She had been proud of him for winning the Phillips case. He could remember the brightness in her face, the way she had walked, head high, back even a little straighter than usual. Because it was clever? Did skill matter so much, ahead of wisdom? Was it because she was on the winning side, and Hester had lost?

  Or had she not been proud at all, but concealed it very well with that small show of defiance? And loyalty? Was that towards him, or her father? Did she even know that it was her father who had represented Phillips, indirectly? Had she any idea what Phillips was really like? Rathbone was only just beginning to appreciate that himself How could she know more? And if she could be loyal, could he not at least do as much?

  He finished the fish. “I don't know exactly what the changes to this room are,” he said aloud, “but it is much pleasanter to eat in. I like it.”

  She looked up quickly, her eyes questioning. “Do you? I'm glad. It wasn't anything very big.”

  “Sometimes it is small things that make the difference between beauty and ordinariness,” he answered.

  “Or good and evil?” she asked. “Small to begin with.”

  This was becoming a conversation he did not wish to enter.

  “That is too philosophical.” He looked down at his plate. “A little heavy for the fish course.” He smiled very slightly.

  “Would you prefer it with the meat?” she asked, her voice perfectly steady. The thought flickered into his mind that Hester would have told him not to be pompous, and charged ahead with the conversation anyway. That was one of the reasons he had hesitated to ask her to marry him, and been so much more comfortable with Margaret.

  “I am not sure that I know enough about the origins of good or evil to discuss them at all,” he said frankly. “But if you wish to, I suppose I could try.” It was meant to dissuade her. She would defer to him; he had been married long enough to know that of her. It was how her mother had taught her to keep her husband's regard.

  Hester would have given him an answer that would have scorched his emotions and left him stinging … and fiercely alive. Perhaps he would not always have trusted her to be the lady that was Mrs. Ballinger's ideal. But … he left the thought there. It must not be pursued, not now. Not ever.

  He forced himself to look at Margaret. She had her head bent, but she caught his movement and looked up at him.

  “I have compared good and evil enough today, my dear,” he said quietly. “I can see too much of both sides, and the cost of each. I should very much prefer to be able to speak with you of something pleasanter, or at least less full of pitfalls and failures, and mistakes that we see too late to help.”

  Her face filled with concern. “I'm sorry. I should prefer something more agreeable as well. I have spent the day trying to raise money for the clinic, mostly from people who have far more than they need, and are still desperate for something further. So many women of high fashion dress not to please the man they love, but to spite the women they fear.”

  He had not intended to, but he found himself smiling. Some of the knots inside him eased. They were moving onto surer ground. “I wonder if they have any idea that you have observed them so accurately,” he remarked.

  She looked alarmed, although not entirely without a flash of humor.

  “My goodness, I hope not! They avoid me rapidly enough as it is, because they know I shall ask them for money, if I can manage it—at times and in places where it will be hard for them to refuse.”

  His eyes widened. “I hadn't realized you were so ruthless.”

  “You weren't meant to,” she retorted.

  A flicker of genuine admiration touched him bringing with it a pleasure he clung to. “I shall immediately forget,” he promised. “Let us speak of other things. I am sure there must be some current event that is worthy of debate.”

  The following day was Saturday; no courts were in session. Normally Rathbone would have spent at least the morning looking through documents for the following week. Finally he made up his mind to face the issue that had been troubling him for several days. He was at last honest enough to admit that ignoring it was an evasion. There would be no right time, no appropriate words.

  He excused himself to Margaret without explanation. This was not out of the ordinary; he had deliberately developed the habit of not telling her, often because it was confidential. He said simply that he would return before lunch.

  It was a short cab ride to Arthur Ballinger's house. He would have preferred to have this conversation in offices, where there was no possibility of domestic interruption, and no need whatever for Margaret's mother to know that he had called. But he felt he could no longer put it off, or risk professional obligations delaying it yet further.

  The maid welcomed him, and he hoped for one breathless moment that he might escape without having to explain himself to his mother-in-law. But she must have heard the door because she came down the stairs with a broad smile, greeting him warmly.

  “How delightful to see you, Oliver. You look very well. I hope you are?” She meant “very formal,” because he was in his business clothes. He wished Arthur Ballinger would appreciate the gravity of what he was going to ask. Neither friendship nor ties of marriage altered the moral issues involved.

  “In excellent health, thank you, Mama-in-law,” he replied. “And so is Margaret. I am sure she would have sent you her best wis
hes had she known I was coming; however, the matter is confidential. It is Mr. Ballinger I need to see. I believe he can advise me in a matter of some importance. Is he at home?” He knew it was Ballinger's habit, as it was his own, to prepare for the following week on a Saturday morning. For one thing, it enabled him to avoid the various domestic or social requirements his wife might ask of him.

  “Why, yes, certainly he is at home,” she answered, a little crestfallen. She had been hoping it was a personal visit, to lighten the tedium of the morning. “Does he expect you?”

  “No. I am afraid I have only just resolved to consult him. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “It is no inconvenience at all.” She brushed it aside. “You are always welcome.” And with a swish of her abundant skirt she led him across the hall to the study door, where she knocked. At the sound of Ballinger's voice, she opened it and announced Rathbone's presence.

  Ballinger had no possible choice but to invite Rathbone in, as if he were delighted to see him. However, as soon as the door was closed, the tension was palpable in the air, in spite of the pretense. They both remained standing.

  Ballinger hesitated for a moment, obviously debating how frank to be, and decided on the least possible frankness. “I can't imagine what you could wish my advice for, but of course if I can help then I shall be happy to. Please make yourself comfortable.” He waved to the other large armchair opposite his own. “Would you care for tea? Or perhaps something cold?”

  Rathbone could afford no time for niceties, and he knew acceptance would mean at least two interruptions, one to request the tea and a second to accept it. “No, thank you,” he declined. “I don't wish to disturb you longer than necessary.” He sat down, mostly to establish his intention to remain until the business was concluded.

  Ballinger sat also, so as not to give the impression that he was urging Rathbone to leave.

  Rathbone plunged in. It was not going to get easier with delay. “The Phillips case still troubles me,” he admitted. He saw Ballinger's face tighten, so slightly that it could have been a trick of the light, except that he had not moved. “The questioning of police motives was fair, in principle. In fact, it is a tactic one has to consider in any case.”